Checking out his emails, she quickly changed her recent opinion of him. At least ten emails from him to different people stated his hatred of the Whitman family. How it sickened him to see Wynnie and Cathy purposely ignoring him after years of begging for hugs. Had they been told by their daddy to do that? Or did it come from Peter Novak, Duplicitous Lawyer Supreme?
Most of the answers to his emails felt forced, like the friend or acquaintance really didn’t know how to respond. “Interesting. He was making a nuisance of himself?” she said and put Junebug down into her own bed.
Brooke continued over to Helen’s two emails to the administration. They were simply a couple of thank you notes to the administration for hiring her, telling them she would do her best to make them proud. That kind of thing.
Next, Brooke went over to Ruth Novak’s extensive list, mostly to see if her ex’s email address was there. It was. She could feel her pulse gathering speed. Once into Peter Novak’s emails, she read the several that were written to Michael Whitman, reassuring him that because of Peter’s gentle but steady persuasion, Michael’s father Joseph had signed the newest will and trust, making sure if there was only one survivor, that sibling would immediately receive all inheritance––quam bevissime.
She knew that one. “Quam bevissime, as soon as possible,” she told a sleeping, dead-to-the-world Junebug, blissfully curled up in a cuddly ball.
So…were Peter Novak and Michael Whitman in this together? That would explain how Wynnie and Cathy’s chunky bodies could be moved into the different alleys.
She sat back, digesting it all. Wonder how the rest of our gang are doing?
* *
By eight-fifteen that night, Larry and Tony had had it. No sign of Collin’s shovel anywhere. And trying to question him further in the presence of his pit-bull defense lawyer, David Costigan, proved useless.
At the local bar, Larry took a swig of his beer chaser. “I have to say, I am learning more about the inner workings of the legal system through Costigan than I thought possible. And it makes me wanna throw up.”
“I hear you,” Tony said. He took a sip of his ale. “I keep thinking there’s something we’re missing on Collin, you know? Hopefully Brooke will find some stuff on him and the others.”
Larry chuckled. “Funny that you don’t even mention Henry or Abby in this equation. Henry’s a whiz at all things ancestral, and Abby, as wacko as she seems, actually has helped a couple of police departments. I looked her up again and was impressed.”
“I wasn’t implying only Brooke,” Tony muttered and grabbed a much larger swig of his drink.
Just then both their cell phones pinged.
“Looks like Chief Bruner’s having another hissy-fit,” Larry said, reading his text.
Even though it was after police station hours, the detectives simultaneously sighed, paid their tabs, and left, just as Henry, sitting in front of the library’s computer, stared at Simon Leighton’s page on the KnowYourAncestor.com site.
“Oh, my Lord,” he said and swallowed––hard.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Abby knew the signs. Every time she experienced three nights in a row of little to no sleep, her face would show the grim results. Puffy eyelids, deep, dark circles under her eyes, lips like dried prunes, and tiny wrinkles tiptoed around the corners of her usually young-looking mouth.
She stared at herself in the mirror. Yuck. Wonder how old Brooke’s looking today?
A sudden desire to hold Junebug washed over her. Should she chance it? Would Brooke be halfway welcoming to her, or would she produce that special look she sometimes got? The one that clearly said, “Get lost, girlie.”
Abby glanced down at a photocopy of Captain Goddard’s journal page. Okay, Wallace Lansbury was no good, and he hooked up with Simon Leighton, who, according to Henry, was his first cousin. So, if they were dealing with a family, who were the cousins in modern times? And was Ruth related to Brendan who worked in the Green Dragon Tavern and was hated so much by Simon he was murdered? If the murders followed the same method used in the 1700s, who would be the descendant of Wallace Lansbury? So many unanswered questions.
As soon as she studied the tea leaves left in yesterday’s mug, a sudden glimpse of Henry at the library scrolling through the computer in front of him, calmed her mind. For a few seconds, that is. Before she went back to Major Angst.
When the phone rang, she jumped a good half-inch. “Hello?” She listened for a few seconds. “Okay, I’ll come right now.”
Are the planets aligning? She grabbed her purse, exited her apartment, and headed down the alley toward Brooke and Henry’s back door.
Once inside, she followed Brooke into the living room, where she spied Junebug, sprawled out on the sofa, as if waiting for her. “Oh, Junie, so good to see you, you sweet girl.” She picked her up and draped her over her shoulder. “Thanks for calling, Brooke.”
“I figured two heads are better than one,” Brooke said. “And frankly, right about now I could use at least five more of them.”
“You, too? What do you hear from the guys?”
“Well, Henry called a while ago to say he was coming home right away with a whopper.”
Abby scrunched her nose. “That’s specific.”
“He didn’t say anything more. Probably because that librarian lady––what’s her name, Roberta––was hovering over him.” She smirked. “Boy, does she have a thing for him. Woot.”
They both smiled.
“Good for him,” Abby said. “Now, anything on your end? For me, I really feel that Wallace helping Simon is symbolic of someone helping the modern murderer. Moving those bodies couldn’t have been that easy.”
“I agree,” Brooke said. “But who? I was thinking maybe Ruth’s ex-hubby, Peter, maybe helped Michael Whitman? Either one of them could be related to Leighton and Lansbury. But again, that’s where Henry comes in.”
“Yes, that’s occurred to me, too. What about Larry and Tony? What have they come up with?”
Brooke shrugged then eyed her watch. “Where in the world is Henry? He should have been home by now.”
* *
Wait until Brooke and Abby hear this.
After calling Brooke, Henry raced out of the library. Concentrating on what he had just discovered, he remembered something he’d read earlier, when the colonists and immigrants first came to America. But this new discovery was not just helpful to their case, basically it solved it. He couldn’t wait to tell Brooke and Abby––his girls––all about it.
Stepping off the curb, he was so excited he didn’t do his usual look-both-ways-before-you-cross the street. So, he didn’t see the car careening directly toward him. Didn’t see the lone driver’s silhouette against the early dusk backlight of glaring headlights in the car’s rear window. Didn’t hear the thud when the car smacked into him and sent him flying.
He also had no idea that two people had run over to him, called 911, then, as a crowd gathered, watched him being taken away in an ambulance to the local hospital, still unconscious.
* *
The second the hospital’s call came in, Brooke and Abby tried hard not to go into panic mode. They almost succeeded––but not quite. Both scrambled to locate their purses and Brooke to pop her cell phone into hers. June started rubbing in and out between their legs.
“Look, she knows, she knows,” Abby sobbed.
“Don’t get me started, Abby,” Brooke choked. “Let’s just get there, okay?”
As soon as they did arrive at the hospital, they were told by a hospital staff member that Henry had been put into an induced coma.
“This is not happening!” Brooke kept repeating.
The minute Larry and Tony rushed in, Larry drew Brooke into his arms. Tony took a step toward her as well, but then turned and instead, went over to Abby, openly crying off to one side. Putting an arm around her shoulders, he said softly, “So sorry, Abby.”
At one point, when Larry answered his phone, he practically g
rowled. “Chief, I don’t need this right now. As you’re well aware, our dear friend, Henry, has been hit by a car and is in the hospital in a coma. Tony or I will call you in a bit.”
Brooke watched his angry face. “What in the world happened?” she asked.
Tony stepped away from Abby and strode over to Brooke. “The two witnesses claim the car that hit Henry went straight for him.”
“What? It doesn’t make sense. Who would want to hurt Henry––of all people? No–no–no.” She sank down into a chair and covered her face with her hands, silent sobs coming on strong.
Larry approached her, but she pushed him away. A minute later, she finger-dried her tears, and stood up. “Where’s Henry’s doctor?” she demanded of a passing nurse.
“I don’t know, miss. Perhaps if you ask up at the front desk, they can tell you that information.”
“Don’t tell me that. Go get a doctor, any doctor right now!”
The nurse stared at her then left.
“Brooke, just any old doctor won’t know about Henry,” Larry said, standing behind her. “I’ll go find out now, okay?”
Nodding, she glanced over at Abby, who was rocking back and forth, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Five steps toward each other, and they quickly embraced.
Tony wiped one eye then cleared his throat. “If you need me, I’m here.”
Both of them turned toward him and collectively nodded just as Larry and Henry’s doctor approached.
“Miss Anderson?” he asked, stepping close.
Her “Yes?” was more of a squeak.
“Mr. Wiles is all right for now. His brain scan shows no evidence of large trauma. He has what we call Aphasia. That means the injury he sustained has affected the left hemisphere of his brain, which controls speech and sometimes memory. But judging from similar cases we’ve seen, once we release him, he probably will be able to dress and undress himself, but the walking may be a little difficult at first.”
“What does that mean?” Brooke asked while the others shook their heads.
“It’s most likely a temporary condition,” the doctor added. “He should make a complete recovery––with careful therapy, that is. Once he’s sent home, I’ve arranged to have someone come to help him with his speech. The therapist will also teach you some techniques to use as well. The more exercises Mr. Wiles is exposed to, the sooner he can return to full speech and memory.”
“Can we see him now?” Brooke asked.
“No, not now. He needs his rest. It’ll have to be tomorrow, during visiting hours.”
“But––”
Larry put a hand on her arm.
She sighed. “All right, doctor. You win.”
His eyebrows arched. “Win?”
“Doctor, she’s obviously upset,” Abby quickly said.
The doctor gave a short nod then walked away.
Larry suggested the ladies go home while he and Tony go back to the police station to see if anything more about the hit-and-run driver had cropped up. But when Larry turned to go, Brooke grabbed his arm.
“Wait,” she said. “Henry had something really important to share involving the case. He was all excited about it and was going to tell Abby and me as soon as he got home.”
Tony shrugged. “Obviously, it’ll have to wait. So, in the meantime, let’s all continue on with our individual investigations. Next up, Larry and I are going to interview Peter Novak. After him, we’ll be speaking to Michael Whitman.”
Back at home, as exhausted as Brooke and Abby both were, they went back to work. Brooke opened up Larry’s software program again, and Abby, spread out on the sofa, told Brooke to leave her alone because she was going to meditate––with June plastered against her side.
It was a half hour later that Brooke paused her research and went over to Abby. Kneeling down next to her she gently shook her neighbor. “Wake up.”
Abby rolled her eyes open. “Yes?”
“Why would anyone go after Henry?” Brooke asked. “And if they did, how did they know he’d be leaving the library at that very moment?”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
While Henry’s doctor instructed Brooke and Abby at the hospital on how to help his patient regain his speech and memory, Larry wished he had no brain left at all. That way he wouldn’t have had to endure the frustration he and Tony had experienced recently in the upscale part of town.
Their twenty-five-minute meeting with Peter Novak had not only proven to be a total waste of time, it was a glimpse into Novak’s pompous mannerisms and most likely slime-ball methods.
First off, the lawyer’s near-mansion of a house was not just ostentatious, it reeked of faux elegance. As Larry later pointed out, whoever the lawyer’s interior decorator had been, he or she had obviously watched far too many Louis XVI biopics. Gilded furniture, gilded picture frames, marbled floors, and in the downstairs bathroom, even a throne of sorts that actually turned out to be a toilet. Something he found out after he asked where he could wash his hands.
After waiting several minutes, the detectives were led into Novak’s elaborate home office. Lined with color-coordinated, leather-bound law books, there was also a gargantuan mahogany desk––edged in gold, of course––and Tiffany lamps, proof positive of Novak’s obvious love for antiques––and gaudy ones at that.
Meanwhile, each question regarding his relationship with Michael Whitman was met with a long-winded answer that made Larry itch to punch him. And all of them delivered in a self-righteous, holier-than-thou tone.
After twenty-five minutes, Tony asked, “Just how much money have you made from the Whitman estate?”
From out of nowhere, a henchman-like bouncer escorted them not-so-politely out.
“Bottom line? We’ve got nothing,” Larry said to Tony on their drive over to the police station to deal with, most likely, another tantrum from Chief Bruner. “Except maybe the fact that Novak’s downstairs bathroom had an actual throne for a toilet. But no toilet paper that I could see.”
Tony laughed. “It must have been camouflaged inside a crown somewhere.”
Tony’s attempt to lighten things didn’t last long. Not only was their murder case going nowhere fast, this latest news about Henry was a two-pronged attack. It was personally worrisome, and clue-wise, a total disaster. When Brooke had told him how Henry had come up with something really important, something so revealing it could crack open the case in a matter of minutes, it was more than frustrating not to be able to hear what that vital intel was. The doctor had told them all that Henry had a good chance of a full recovery, but it was anyone’s guess just how long that process would take. So, because of that, at the police station, Larry and Tony made a small pact. No telling the captain about Henry’s murder clue discovery. What was the point? That would only amp up Bruner’s volatile nature, full force.
Still, it was difficult. Every day they were asked for an update on the Brooke–Abby–Henry–Larry–Tony team. And all the two detectives could report to the captain was a failure to find anything truly concrete.
Finally, after a late shift and a couple of whiskeys at a local bar, Tony turned to his partner. “Tell me again about Novak’s toilet throne again. I sure could use a good laugh.”
* *
For Henry’s return home from the hospital, Brooke had made their place as comfortable as possible. While he’d been away, she had spent hours setting up his bathroom and bedroom, to make them both wheelchair and/or walker friendly. Forget area rugs. They were stored away in closets. And as for his bathroom, she would forever worship the internet for some of its great handicap gadget ideas. Right next to his toilet was a large vertical bar jutting out from the wall, so he could grab on to something while getting up. In the shower, she’d included a high stool for him to sit down on while he held his new handy-dandy, portable showerhead.
But now Brooke was bringing him home, and as excited as she was to have him back, she kept feeling shots of nerves. The doctor had told her––ad nauseum–
–that the more physical therapy he received, the faster he’d fully recover. Of course, she planned to do just that. The doctor had set up a physical therapist for five days a week with a mandate that she would supplement on the weekends. Abby also offered her time, which would help, but what if he never recovered fully? Forget the case, Henry was like family––the good kind.
Visions of having to continue helping him for years loomed large. But Abby kept telling her, “One step at a time.”
Ah, Able Abby is back.
The doctor had warned Brooke about how at first, Henry would need a cane. That was a given. But she certainly hadn’t thought about Henry’s emotional reactions. When his eyes glistened with tears as soon as he saw the well-equipped bathroom, she was concerned.
Instantly she called Abby, whose comment gave her another perspective. “Well, at least his tear ducts are working,” she said.
Helping him walk over to their kitchen table, Brooke then proceeded to set out a pre-made sub sandwich she’d bought that morning. Then it hit her. Could he eat solid food? The hospital cuisine was so ghastly who knew if he was unable to eat or just didn’t want to. She watched him staring at it for a few seconds, his eyes resembling those of a lost, little puppy, desperately wanting to eat but not knowing how.
Tiny whimpers came out of his throat and one soft, “Waaah.”
A sound. Progress…
But just in case he might choke on his food, she pulled some applesauce out of the cupboard and handed it toward him with a spoon.
No problem reading his instant emotions––complete annoyance and frustration.
“Henry, I promise I’ll get you better stuff, but for now, let’s try the applesauce, okay?”
He rolled his eyes. But before she could respond, the front doorbell rang.
The physical therapist entered. A calm, middle-aged man named Jimmy, he started right in, his manner pleasant, but blunt. “Applesauce. Are you kidding me?”
A near smirk twitched across Henry’s cheek muscles.
Jimmy pulled out a large file folder from his bag. “I’ll be leaving you copies of everything we do for him today, Ms. Anderson. I’m counting on you to perform these exercises as much as possible. All right?”
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